


dance inside the sun

by abovetheruins



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blood Drinking, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-05-03
Updated: 2010-07-11
Packaged: 2017-10-09 06:59:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The kid can't be more than sixteen, seventeen. Vamp!fic.</p><p><b>Heavily edited as of 05.27.15</b>. Part III is on its way!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lovely banner by clover71!

The kid can't be more than sixteen, seventeen.

Cook sees him every night, huddled alone in one of the back booths. Easier to hide there, he supposes, where the lights are dimmest. Easier to blend in. (Not that it works, he thinks wryly – with his full lips, huge eyes, and small, wiry body the kid sticks out like a sore thumb.)

He sits there for hours – doesn’t move, doesn’t speak to anybody. He just nurses his soda – Cook makes sure he never gets anything else – and watches.

People, the lights, the shadows on the walls... Cook doesn't know. The kid's eyes flit from one corner of the bar to the other, looking half-crazed, like he’s searching for something. He never seems to find what he's looking for.

Cook should throw him out, just like he does all of the other underage punks who think they can sneak in to his bar. Should have grabbed him by the collar and dragged him outside months ago when the kid first started showing up. But he didn’t, and as the weeks go by he keeps finding excuses to let the kid stay.

He blames his curiosity (for the most part). He wants to know what is it the kid’s looking for, why he looks so desperate every night, why he’s spending all of his nights in a bar in the first place instead of at home with his family, and why his parents aren’t busting down the door to drag him back where he belongs (because surely they have to know their kid’s not in his bed at night?)

He tells himself – multiple times throughout the night and every other time his thoughts start gravitating toward the boy – that his reluctance to toss the kid out has nothing to do with the spark of attraction he feels whenever he spots the teenager. It’s _wrong_ and disquieting but it’s there, and Cook tries his best to ignore it.

Whatever the reason, Cook lets him stay, keeps an eye on him throughout the night. His bar is a decent place, with a decent crowd. The other patrons leave the kid alone for the most part – probably wonder what the hell he's doing in a place like this – but every once and a while some asshole will get it into his head to mess with him, or maybe someone spots him all alone in his dim little corner and figures he’s an easy target. Cook tries to keep the rowdier bunch away from him, though the kid does a pretty good job of scaring off any potential hazards himself.

He doesn't like to be touched. After a few weeks Cook has learned that much. If anyone so much as bumps into his table the boy will jump and cringe away, this pained little crease on his brow, and if one of the braver patrons get close enough to put a hand on his shoulder or grip his arm, he wrenches free with such a look of fear on his face that all they can do is mumble an apology and move away.

It's fucking strange, and there's something that feels decidedly... off about him, but Cook doesn't question it, has no right to. If the kid needs help Cook will give it, just like he would for any other patron of his bar. That's it, and no more.

Until one night.

//

It's fucking cold out. Every new person at the the door brings in a huge gust of frosty wind with them, the October weather cold enough to chill Cook to the bone. He cranks up the heat in the bar in retaliation, and soon the press of bodies is enough to drive out the worst of the chill.

The kid is there again, clustered away from the laughing crowd in the same corner booth as always. Saturday has always been their busiest night; the bar is filling up fast, men and women loose and jovial, looking for a good time and even better drinks, which Cook is happy to provide. He loves to see people loosen their restraints, unwind from whatever woes they've been carrying throughout the week.

The kid doesn’t seem to be benefiting from the mellow atmosphere at all tonight; he looks worse than usual, a nervous wreck. He's shaking like a leaf, eyes wild, fingers clenching convulsively in the sleeves of his sweater. The regulars give him a wide berth; they know by now that the boy in the corner is best left on his own, but someone new – someone Cook doesn't recognize – takes one look at him and slides out of his booth, slinking over to the kid's table while his friends whistle and throw catcalls at his back.

Cook's shoulders tighten as he watches, hands mixing drinks mechanically, barely able to hear the din of the bar over the sudden loud rushing in his ears. He doesn't know what the hell is wrong with him, but something in the air feels heavy, like something is about to happen.

The guy (he’s young, maybe early twenties, cheeks flushed red with alcohol, a predatory gleam in his eyes) slides into the booth beside the kid, throws an arm over his shoulders. He leans in to whisper something in the boy's ear, and Cook is just waiting for the kid to throw the arm away, to jerk back like he always does.

Instead, to his amazement, the kid just sits there, eyes wide and alarmed, but so wild and desperate and –

_Shit_. He's sliding out of the booth with the man, following after him. They're heading to the back door, which leads to the alley between the bar and the next building, and Cook doesn't even stop to think.

"Michael." He snags his best friend by the shoulder, tugs him away from the counter. "Watch the bar for a minute."

Michael nods, doesn't bother to ask any questions. Cook sees his eyes following the two heading outside, sees a frown mar his face. Michael knows about the kid, noticed him before Cook did. He tries to keep the scum away from him, and it’s clear by the furrow of his brows that he doesn't like what he's seeing.

Cook hops over the counter just as the back door closes, feels his blood pumping hard through his veins as he twists through the crowd, pushes open the heavy wooden door with more force than necessary –

– just in time to see the guy running from the alley into the dark street beyond, looking half-crazed himself.

"The hell?" He looks around, sees the kid slumped against the wall, head lowered to his knees and hands quaking at his sides. Cook doesn't even think, just rushes to the boy's side and kneels beside his prone form.

"Hey," he says, keeps his hands to himself, his voice low. The kid doesn't move. He tries again. "Kid, you alright?" Still nothing. Cook moves a little closer, reaches out his hand, slow and easy. "That guy... he didn't do anything to you, did he?" Couldn't have, not with so little time, but the boy still isn't saying anything, and Cook is starting to feel uneasy. That off feeling from before is back, cold and unsettling in the pit of his stomach. His hand settles on the boy's shoulder. "Listen, just come back inside, okay? It's freezing out – “

The rest of his words catch in his throat. Tiny pinpricks of pain assault him, his brain slowing to a sluggish crawl. It feels like his veins are on _fire_. A red haze clouds his vision, blotting out the alley and the boy at his neck. He feels teeth, sharp and sudden, sinking in, and then all that he knows is black.

//

The blood pours, thick and red and _sweet_ down his throat. He sucks and it filters past his teeth, a sharp, delicious chill racing up his spine at the sensation. The cold haze that had settled into his bones for weeks now finally begins to recede under a wave of pure warmth, his body thrumming and flushed and _alive_ for the first time in what feels like forever.

But this isn't right. He knows he shouldn't be doing this, and he fights against the urge to just give in, to swallow and swallow until there's nothing left, until he's taken all that he can, all that he _needs_.

But he can’t.

_Stop, stop, stop_. He wrenches away from the blood like it's burning him (and it might as well be, burning him alive from the inside out).

The man he was drinking from slumps to the ground and he freezes, a cold, numb chill erasing the rush of warmth the blood had left behind. He _knows_ who this is –

It's the bartender, the one he sees every night. His face, the scruff on his chin, the messy auburn hair, the sweep of his brow, he knows it all by now. He's always been able to feel the man's eyes on him. At first it had made him so uncomfortable, the way the stares of strangers always did. He wondered if the man's eyes were sweeping over his form, if they'd grown dark and gleaming, predatory, the way others always seemed to. He hates those eyes, wants to cringe away from everyone who has them, even though he knows (he _knows_), he could protect himself, _hurt_ them, if he wanted to, needed to, hurt them all so terribly that they would never look at him that way again.

But this man – he'd looked at him with curiosity, surely, and something... something darker, yes, but he looked after him. The other bartender did, too – Michael, and the two girls, Carly and Brooke. Whenever someone would approach him, someone his cringing and flinching couldn’t scare away, one of them was never far behind, would fend them off and make sure they didn’t bother him.

And he had just attacked one of them.

He'd just been so _hungry_, so desperate to end the pain, just for a little while, the gnawing emptiness in his stomach driving him crazy. When that other man had approached him he had been weak; he had given in. He hadn’t been able to fight it anymore.

It was always easier to drink from someone if they were drunk. It was unpleasant – the blood always tasted thicker, somehow, and bitter – but it gave him the relief he craved. He hadn't planned on the man seeing his teeth, had just lunged with little grace at his target with fangs bared and eyes untamed and been too weak to pursue the man after he'd run off. He only hoped he would think his appearance some sort of feverish dream brought on by the alcohol.

And then the bartender had shown up, and he hadn’t thought, he’d just _acted_, and now…

He shakes himself out of his stupor, cold seeping into his bones, and scrambles over to the bartender's side, presses his ear to the man's chest. The steady throb of a heart immediately fills his ears, _thank God_.

He studies the man's face, closed eyes he knows to be a deep hazel, lips parted to draw in icy breath. He can't leave him here.

"I'm so sorry." His eyes are wet as he kneels down and draws the man's body over his shoulder, holding his weight with ease. "I didn't mean for this to happen, any of it." He walks away from the alley where he can still smell the sharp tang of blood in the air, the scent thick in his nose, his throat.

It makes him feel wretched, sick, the taste still warm and cloying on his tongue.

//

When Cook wakes up it's to the darkness of a bedroom he doesn't recognize. He lays there for a moment, allows himself to just breathe. One, two. In, out.

There are thick, dark curtains on the window; it's impossible for any bit of light to seep through. There's only the glow of one lone lamp on the bedside table to give him any relief from the dark. He can see a bookcase on one wall, a desk against another, the bed and a table beside it. The walls are a creamy beige; it's a cozy, warm room, but the darkness shrouds it, makes it seem colder.

"Where the hell am I?" he mutters, groaning. His head is killing him. He feels off, drowsy. He tries to remember...

And like a torrent it all comes rushing back – the bar, the alley, that fucking _kid_.

He jolts up out of the bed and onto the floor, stumbling in the dark as he moves toward the curtains, intent on yanking them back so he can fucking see –

"Stop!" He feels small hands (small but _strong_, feels like they could tear him away with ease) grip the back of his shirt. He looks over his shoulder and sees the kid staring at him with terrified hazel eyes. They’re not wild anymore, not desperate, just _scared_.

"Please," the boy says, voice soft and breathy, and Cook lets the heavy fabric slip through his fingers. "Please don't open the curtains. Please?" He flinches away when Cook turns around, takes a frantic half-step back. "I can't, gosh, I can't..."

"What the fuck _are_ you?" Cook’s voice is calmer than he thought it would be, but his brain still feels sluggish, like he has to swim through tar to grab hold of a single thought.

The kid flinches at the curse (and what the hell, his brain cannot fathom any of this), looks up at him with those huge eyes and pulls him away from the window, towards the bed.

"Just – " He watches the boy swallow hard, run a trembling hand through his short, dark hair. "Would you... would you just sit down? I'll, um... I'll try and explain everything, I just. I don't know where to start."

"What the _hell_ did you do to me?" Cook barks, backing away from the kid (he has no clue where he even is, if anyone knows he’s here, and – ) “You – you _bit_ me, didn’t you?” He presses a hand to the side of his neck, hisses at the contact – his skin’s fucking _burning_.

The boy’s face contorts as if he's about to burst into tears, his eyes wet, teeth biting into his lower lip (and holy fucking _god_, Cook can see the tips of tiny fangs digging into the plump flesh).

"I didn't mean to – " He cuts himself off, clenches his fingers into the rumpled hem of his sweater. "I didn't know it was you. I mean, I didn't know anything, I was just – I was hungry and I – "

Cook jerks back at that, eyes wide. He remembers the pinpricks of pain, the swooping, hazy rush to his head, and the kid _bit_ him, actually fucking sunk his teeth into Cook’s neck like a piece of fruit, and –

"You're trying to tell me – “ Cook swallows, runs a shaky hand through his sweaty hair. He’s actually _saying_ this, what the fuck. “ – that you're a... a fucking _vampire_? Is that it?"

The boy nods slowly, hesitantly, looking as if he might turn tail and run at any given second (and how screwed up is that, Cook thinks, that the kid should be scared of _him_ when his fingers had felt like an iron vice in Cook's shirt).

"That's crazy. You’re _crazy_." This whole damn mess is crazy. He never should have followed the kid out of the bar, never should have gotten so damn curious in the first place, never should have let him _stay_.

"I'm sorry." The kid's voice sounds so damn honest and torn up that Cook can barely even stand to hear it. He looks miserable, alone. "I never would have done it if I had known it was you. I never... Y-you, and everyone else, Michael and those two girls... I know you've been – you’ve been looking after me, and I never should have even gone in there, I never should have stayed in your bar but I _did_ and I'm so sorry – “

Cook cuts him off, his chest feeling tight, constricted. "Look, just – I really have no fucking clue how I'm supposed to believe any of this, or process any of it – " He has to breathe in deep through his nose before he can continue, lets it all out in one huge gust and suddenly he just wants out of there, away from this. "I'm going to leave, okay? Can I leave?"

The kid looks pained that he even asked, and Cook feels like an asshole for no reason. "Yes, gosh yes. You... you can leave." He moves out of the doorway so Cook's way is unhindered, eyes nervous and sad and god, Cook needs to go before his chest cracks in two. "Just... please, shut the door, when you leave? I can't... the sunlight – “

Jesus Christ. "Fine, yeah, okay." He heads to the doorway, doesn't spare the kid a single glance, barely pays attention as he makes his way down a narrow staircase, through a living room lit by lamplight and little else (_no sunlight_). He opens the door and slams it shut, and walks.

He catches the first bus he sees, rides it to his street, doesn't think. When he gets to his house he barely acknowledges Dublin yapping at his heels, just stumbles his way up the stairs, into his room, and onto his bed.

He's asleep before his head hits the pillow.

//

He doesn't see the kid for three weeks.

At first he's glad, pushes it all to the back of his mind and buries it deep. He tells himself that that night was nothing but a delusional, fever dream, a nightmare that’s over and done with. Cook is nothing if not stubborn, and before long he begins to believe that the kid never even existed in the first place. If it wasn't for Michael and the girls bringing him up ("Wonder where that kid disappeared to?" "Hope he's doing alright, cutie pie looked half scared to death last time he was here." "What the hell happened that night, man?"), Cook could pretend that he’d imagined the whole thing.

Michael is the only one who knows about that night, how Cook had followed the kid and that man into the alley. Cook had made up some half-baked lie about getting in a fight with the guy and scaring him off, sending the kid home before heading out himself to take care of his own wounds (he'd been so disoriented when he'd woken up at home that he had banged into every piece of furniture he had, a fight was a convenient excuse for the bruises). He doubts Michael believes him (who the hell would?), but as long as his friend doesn't pry, Cook keeps the truth to himself.

And then three weeks after that night, the kid is back. It’s Monday, their slowest night, just a few regulars and stragglers reluctant to head home scattered around the bar. It's quiet, the television playing some game Cook isn't paying attention to. It's just him and Carly on duty, no need for the others with such a small crowd.

And then the kid walks through the door.

Carly notices him first. She's sitting at the counter, idly watching the game. Her eyes drift, bored, and she grins as they fall on the doorway. She grabs Cook's arm and gestures over her shoulder. "Look who's back, Dave."

Cook just stares at the boy, frozen, memories from that night rushing into his head. His hand absently scratches at his throat, where two tiny punctures had remained for days after, a constant reminder of something he was trying very hard to forget.

_Fuck_.

He doesn't think (around this kid, he never does), just throws down the rag he was using to wipe down the counter and follows the boy into his booth.

He looks terrible. His hazel eyes are bloodshot, skin paler than before. He looks drawn out, lifeless. He sits down, studies Cook for one long moment (and Cook fights hard not to look away) before he opens his mouth.

"David Archuleta."

Cook stares at him. "What?"

"It's my name," the kid (_David_, and if that isn't fucking weird) says. He draws in a breath, looks as if he's steeling himself. "I need to talk to you."

"About what?" Cook keeps his voice calm, eyes flicking from the left to the right of the bar (looking for a possible escape route, maybe). Carly is behind the counter, mixing a drink for a guy with tattoos swirling down his arms, but her eyes are on them, curious.

David clears his throat, bites his lip (Cook sees the glint of his teeth, wonders dazedly how he keeps the sharp points from drawing blood). "I... about that night." He finally breaks their eye contact. "You... you won't tell anyone, will you? About me?"

The kid actually looks _scared_.

"No one would believe me," Cook says, even as he's thinking that no, he never would (and how fucked up is it that he still feels protective of this kid, even now?)

David flinches. "I'm... I really am sorry. It's just, sometimes I get – "

"Hungry, yeah." Cook’s lips twist at the word. It leaves an awful taste in his mouth. "You told me."

David looks up, and this time he looks a little annoyed. "Listen,” he says. “I don't make it a habit to... to drink from people like that, okay?"

"No?" Cook asks, his voice skeptical, his mind reeling even as he continues to speak; he can't believe he's even having this conversation.

David shakes his head. "I don't... drink, all of the time; I try not to. I'm usually fine, for a few months. It's just... It builds up inside me, all the time, and it gets harder and harder to just... to ignore it, and that's when I get... like that. Like that night."

Cook doesn't say anything, just sits there staring, trying to process everything he's hearing. One thought nags at the back of his mind. "So, is that why you've been coming here, then? To... to _find_ someone?" _To feed on?_ Jesus Christ.

David nods his head, slowly. His eyes are clouded and miserable. "At... at first," he admits, voice small. "It's always, um, easier? When the person is drunk? They never remember anything the next morning, and I always only take a few, um, a few mouthfuls, just enough to make the hunger go away."

"Have you ever – " Cook makes a slashing motion across his neck with his hand, and David sucks in a breath, eyes wide.

"No!" He looks horrified at the mere thought. "I would never do that! I wouldn't... gosh, no, I'd never k-kill – "

"Okay, okay." Cook cuts him off before he can say any more. "I get it, alright?" He tilts his head. The knot of anxiety in his stomach is shrinking, fading away little by little; it's hard to be afraid of this kid.

David slumps against his seat. Cook studies him for a moment, thinks of his flighty movements, the way he cringes away from everyone, the assholes that always try to get a rise out of him.

He can’t help but ask, "Isn't it dangerous? Going to bars, looking like you do?"

David frowns. "What do you mean?” he asks, clearly confused. “What do I, um, what do I look like?" He touches his face with those slender fingers, as if he's searching for some kind of flaw, and Cook almost groans.

"You've got to be kidding me," he says, leaning his elbows on the table. "You’re – " too attractive for your own good " – young. And alone. Even in a bar like this, there are still people who'd take advantage of that." He takes in David's red face, his smooth skin and bright, bright eyes. Wonders. "How old are you anyway?”

"Eighteen," David says, and though the question wasn’t a loaded one his eyes darken like it’s a painful subject anyway. "Next month – um, the 28th? – I'll turn nineteen."

Cook nods, amused despite himself that they share the same birth month as well as the same name, and despite the insanity of this entire conversation he finds himself wanting to know more about this boy, more about what’s happened to him. It’s idiotic, but the urge is there. It's on the tip of his tongue to ask _Who did this to you?_ but Carly approaches their table and Cook bites his lip to keep his mouth shut.

"Hey there, hon," she says, looking at David. He smiles sweetly at her, and Cook instantly forgets what it ever felt like to be afraid of him.

"Hi, Carly," he says, and Cook wonders when Carly told David her name, vaguely recalling that the boy had mentioned Brooke and Michael as well, that night.

"Can I get you anything?"

"Um, just a Sprite, if you don't mind?"

Carly grins, ruffles David's hair before she turns to head back to the counter. "Sure thing, hon. Boss? Can I see you for a minute, please?"

Cook frowns, but gets up to follow her. He lingers at the table for a minute, finally muttering, "I'll be right back, okay?" and heads toward the counter with David's anxious smile at his back.

//

David doesn't know why he's here. He never goes back to any of the bars where he's fed, always moves on. He just, he hasn't been able to get the bartender or that night out of his head.

He still has that image in his mind – the man's wide, frightened eyes and the way he'd practically ran from David's room as if David planned on attacking him. And it hurt, actually, to be looked at as if he really were some sort of... of monster, by someone who had been watching out for his well-being just the night before.

Because that's what the man was doing, when he'd followed David out to that alley, had thought that he was letting that other man – what had he said, take advantage of him?

David knows he looks younger than he really is (and now he always _will_, a traitorous part of his mind whispers, and that... he doesn't want to think about that). He knows that people will try and use that against him. It's just something he can't change.

He'd kept that night fresh in his head for nearly a month. The time had been admittedly blissful; with his hunger sated he had finally been able to get on with his life, free of that gnawing ache in his belly, yet he had wanted to explain, to justify his actions.

He hadn't planned on spilling his whole life story, gosh, he just hadn't been able to control his rambling once he'd gotten started and he'd almost told the other man (he wishes he knew his name, wonders if he even has the right to ask for it now) everything.

He watches the bartender speak with Carly beneath the fall of his lashes, fingers tapping on the tabletop. The man's lips are twisted in a frown, eyebrows furrowed; David wonders what they're talking about, hopes it's not about him (even though it probably is, if their frequent glances in his direction are any indication).

He feels nervous, anxious. The door is right there, David knows he could just get up and leave, he's let so much slip already and this is all such a bad idea, but –

But he watches the bartender's hazel eyes drift over to him, dark and curious (but not afraid) and he stays.

He stays.

//

"Be careful with this one, Dave, alright?" Carly's voice is sharp. She grabs a glass from beneath the counter and fills it with ice, eyes hard.

Cook frowns. "What the hell are you talking about, Carly?"

Carly huffs, smacks him lightly over the back of his head with her fist. "The kid," she says, rolling her eyes as if that answer is obvious. Cook just stares at her, because, what?

Carly sighs at his clueless look. "Look, I get it, you like him. But he's a fucking teenager, Dave, you – "

"Wait, wait, just. What the hell are you even? I _don’t_." It's rare that he flounders for words, but this... God, this night couldn't get any more fucked.

"Oh, you don't, huh?" Carly shakes her head, filling the glass she's holding with Sprite. "Then why do you let him stay here, instead of throwing his underage ass out the door, hmm? Why do you look after him when anyone tries to mess with him?"

Cook's lips form a thin, hard line at that. "We _all_ keep an eye on him, Carly, it's not just – "

"You're right, Dave," Carly interrupts. "It's not just you, but – Alright, look." She sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose. "I like the kid, too, okay? He's sweet, he's adorable, he's too fucking nice to be spending all his nights in a bar. You want to help him, Dave? Get him out of here. He's what, sixteen? Seventeen at the most?"

"He's eighteen," Cook mumbles.

Carly rolls her eyes again, slides the drink over to him. "Either way, he has to have some family, right? I'm sure they wouldn't want him spending all his time here, if they even know where he is."

Cook nods, grabs the glass. He’d thought about David’s family before, wondered who they are, _where_ they are. He doesn't remember seeing anyone else at the apartment. Then again, he hadn't really been paying attention to anything other than finding his way _out_, so.

Carly grabs a glass and starts wiping it clean, and Cook takes that as his cue that the conversation is over. He leaves the counter with her words ringing in his ears and slides into the seat across from David with a sigh, feeling infinitely tired.

"Oh, thank you, um..." David looks flustered, ears flaring a bright shade of red. Cook would find it funny in any other situation, how easy it is to get a reaction from the teen. "Um... Can I ask your, uh, your name? Please?"

"It's David." And Cook doesn't know why he's doing this, handing out information so easily to this, this (he can't bring himself to even think the word, still can't wrap his mind around it). "David Cook."

"Oh! Oh, well, that's... that's weird." David giggles (actually _giggles_, and the image is so far removed from the David of that night that Cook's mind reels).

He feels his lips tug up at the corners, an almost grin. "Just call me Cook. Less confusion that way, right?"

David stares at him for a moment, eyes wide and almost surprised, before he smiles. A real smile, big and bright and infectious – it lights up his entire face.

_Just because I told you my name, huh?_ Cook thinks, giving David a tentative smile in return. It's surreal, this little spark of satisfaction that ignites in his chest just because he made the kid smile.

But then he remembers Carly's words, and the smile slides right off his face. He clears his throat uncomfortably. "Can I ask," he starts, hesitant (because this is personal, but now that the thought is in his head he can't shake it) "What about your... your family? Do they know? About – "

"No." David's voice is clipped, guarded, his brilliant smile settling into a frown. The expression on his face is enough to make Cook's heart twist in his chest, painful and raw. He watches David's fingers wrap around his glass, so tight the knuckles burn white. "They, um... they don't know, about me. About this. They probably think I'm..." He trails off with a watery cough, and Cook tries to ignore the brightness of his eyes (but it's _hard_, and he tries not to dwell on why).

"Who did this to you?" The question comes out before Cook can stop it, but it's been burning on his tongue the entire night, and David looks resigned, not surprised by it, as if he knew it was coming.

"I... I don't know." He shrugs his shoulders, moves his straw in a slow arc around the rim of his glass. "I was walking home from school one night – I'd stayed late for some reason, music club or something; I don't really remember anymore. But, um, it was dark, and I wasn't really paying attention, you know? Just, just trying to get home as fast as possible, b-because I knew my parents would worry if I took too long, and, um, I never n-noticed that someone was following me."

It's impossible to ignore the way David's voice falters as he goes on, least of all the way tears have gathered on his eyelashes, threatening to spill over.

"What happened?" Cook's voice is thick, his mouth dry. He's leaning over the table towards David, fingers clenched tight around his knees.

David shakes his head, sniffs as he swipes a hand underneath his eyes. "I-I don't really remember? I just, the last thing I can think of is pain, and then waking up on the ground. And sunlight."

"Sunlight?"

David nods. "The sun was coming up, and it... it _hurt_, so much." He shudders at the memory, and Cook wonders, feeling vaguely sick, what that must have felt like.

"God." Cook leans back in his seat. "So you just... what did you do, after that?"

"I figured it out pretty quickly," David says, a sad, brittle smile on his face. "I don't like to, um, think about it anymore, but... I knew I couldn't go home, not like this. So I left."

Cook tries to imagine that, not being able to go home, not being able to see his family. He wonders how David has even managed to get this far.

There's a beat of silence between them. David's swiping at his eyes, sniffling, trying not to let Cook see, and there's just... there's just no way that Cook can be afraid of him. Sitting there looking so small and terrified, _alone_, David's not a threat to anyone, to anything.

Except maybe himself, and it's that thought that makes Cook's blood run cold.

Because that night? What if that guy that David had followed had seen something? What if he hadn't been drunk? The way David had been, so out of his mind with that hunger, Cook's not sure he would have even noticed. David is _eighteen_, still a fucking kid, a careless, scared teenager out on his own living with this thing he apparently can't even control and –

"I don't understand how you do it," Cook says, finally, faintly. "I don't get how you've come this far, David."

And David gets this heartbreaking look on his face, his bright eyes huge and red. He looks so fucking _young_.

"Because I have to," he says, and the way he says it, as if it's the most obvious answer in the world, breaks Cook's heart a little. "What else am I supposed to do?" He rests his elbows on the tabletop, staring into his glass, a faraway look in his eyes. "Sometimes, I would think about just... giving up. Walking outside in the morning, leaving the curtains open before I go to sleep so that the sun comes right in, but." He shakes his head, lifts his eyes to meet Cook's. "I never could. I want to _live_, Cook, even if it’s like this. I don't... I don't want to die."

And Cook is mortified to feel tears stinging at his eyes; he swipes at them surreptitiously, hoping David doesn't see.

But he does. Cook sees him lower his eyes, his throat working. His face is flushed with embarrassment (for spilling so much, Cook thinks, and he knows the feeling). "I, um." David's looking around the bar; Cook follows his gaze and sees that many of the patrons have already left. There's only two men at the counter, and Carly, who is busy scrubbing down glasses and putting away bottles. "It's getting late, huh?" David says, and Cook doesn't miss the note of disappointment in his voice. "I should probably be, ah, getting home. It looks like you're about to close up."

And they are, a quick glance at the clock and Cook can see that for himself. But he doesn't want David to leave (and at this point he's tired of berating himself for that). He just has this thought in his head that if David walks out of that door now, without Cook doing or saying anything, he won't be coming back.

And Cook doesn't want that. As strange, and frightening, and illogical as the thought is, he wants to _know_ David.

So he lets his mouth do the talking for him, and says the first thing that comes into his head.

"I'll walk you home."

//

David wants to shake his head, say that it's fine, he can make it on his own. He doesn't even understand why Cook would want to spend more time with him than he has to, not after all that David had told him (and what had he been thinking, revealing so much?) He wants to say _something_, though, but his throat feels clogged up and he's afraid that if he does try to say anything he'll just end up bursting into tears, or something equally embarrassing.

(Though maybe that wouldn't be so bad? Because he'd seen Cook's eyes in the bar, the way he'd swiped at them when he thought David wasn't looking).

And it's nice, to finally have someone to talk to. He hasn't been able to do that for more than a year, actually talk to someone. He's always been running away from that, because what is he supposed to do once someone finds out about him? If he doesn't keep running, keep moving, his secret will get out, and then –

He doesn’t want to think about what people would do to him, once they found out.

And now Cook _knows_. Cook knows his secret but he's not running away. He'd actually listened to David, even after all that had happened he hadn't asked him to leave, hadn't run away. And he was walking him home.

David can't help himself. He watches Cook out of the corner of his eye as they walk, both of them taking long, steady strides. It's hard not to pay extra attention to the man's throat; his eyes fasten onto the thick, throbbing pulse, the soft _thump-thump-thump_ of Cook's heart pounding in his ears. His eyes trace the scruffy chin, the full lips, down the broad line of his shoulders (and this is dangerous territory, David knows, he really should just turn away, but – )

It's almost a blessing when his apartment complex comes into view. He breathes a tiny sigh of relief, hands twisting in the hem of his jacket. "We're um, we're here," he says, for lack of anything better; the silence is getting to him.

He sees Cook grin out of the corner of his eye (though, it might be more of a grimace?) "I remember."

And _oh_, David instantly thinks back to that night, to Cook's confused, terrified expression as he'd fled from his apartment. There's this nagging, horrifying thought in his head that Cook knows where he lives, that he could tell anyone his secret and then there's no telling what could happen to him –

But, no. _He won’t_, David thinks, digging into his pocket for his keys. _Cook said he wouldn't tell, and I, I believe him_. Maybe that's foolish of him. Maybe in the end he'll regret his decision to tell Cook everything, to not just pack up and leave, but. For now, he thinks, he's going to enjoy this, this frail little connection he's managed to make.

They stop at his door. David can't keep his fingers from fidgeting restlessly with his keys; the jangle of metal against metal is unreasonably loud in the quiet, and he can't help but feel nervous (for what, he doesn't know, something feels like it's happening here, like something is _beginning_ and he can't figure out what that means).

"T-thank you," he mutters, keeps his eyes on Cook's chin because there's just no way he can look at his eyes, no way he's brave enough. He wonders where all of that bravado from earlier had disappeared to. He keeps going, keeps talking, not sure what he'll do if he stops. "You didn't have to... I know after everything I've told you and what I, what I _did_to you, I don't really deserve any kindness from you." And he should really just keep his mouth shut, because what is he even saying? "Um, well."

"What do you plan to do, when this happens again?" David has no clue what to say to that, doesn't really get what Cook's asking.

"What do you... when _what_ happens again?"

Cook scratches the back of his neck, looks away. "You said you let this _hunger_ – " and his lips twist at the mention of it, though whether it's from disgust or pity David doesn't know. " – build up, that you go crazy from it, right?"

And David wouldn't describe it in those words, feels this little twist in his stomach at the implications (at the _truth_), that he's so far gone with his need for blood that he stops thinking, stops caring about being cautious.

He nods, slowly, doesn't really know what to say to that, what Cook's trying to get across to him.

"Well, what are you going to do when it happens again?"

Oh. David feels his face burn with shame, with embarrassment, tries to hide it in the collar of his jacket. "I-I don't..." He doesn't know. Every time it happens, when he can't stand that ache in his belly any longer, he goes out to a bar (a different one, each time, because he can't take the risk of someone recognizing him).

Cook surprises him (again; David's not sure anymore what to expect from him). "Come back. When that happens."

Um, what? "What?"

Cook clears his throat, looking uncomfortable and a little determined and just, what is he _asking_?

"When it gets to be too much, just. Come back to my bar, okay?"

"I... I _can’t_. Cook, I." He swallows against the lump in his throat, hands flailing. "Cook, I can't just waltz in and – " _Pick someone else_. The thought makes him feel sick, luring another of Cook's patrons out of the bar, having Cook know what he's doing. That's just, no. He can't.

"Look, just." Cook sighs, rakes his fingers through his hair in frustration. "You can just. _Fuck_." David flinches at the curse, about to open his mouth to say something when Cook's eyes snap to his face and he can't, the words just die on his tongue. "You can drink from me."

David freezes. "You don't know what you're saying,” he says faintly. "You can't want that."

Cook shakes his head, eyes clear and dark and David feels this rushing, terrifying _pull_ low in his belly. "I don't know what the hell I’m doing, David," Cook says, voice low and warm and David doesn't, he needs to _get away_ (because this is crazy, Cook can't be asking him this). "And you don't have to, I'm not trying to force you into doing this, just. When you get like that, come back to my bar." _To me_ is left unsaid, and despite the fact that it terrifies him David feels this great lurching surge of _want_ to hear those words.

"A-alright. Okay." He doesn't know why he's agreeing to this; he can't do this, he just has to get away from Cook before he does something crazy, before he really takes him up on that offer (and _oh_, the temptation is so strong, the smell and taste of Cook's blood a hazy, blurred memory and that's how it has to stay). "I have to. I need to go. Um – " Somehow he manages to insert his key into the lock, twists it with a strength he's not paying attention to anymore, almost bends the brass before he yanks the door open.

The last thing he sees is Cook's dark, dark eyes, before he slams the door closed and is swallowed by darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Cook spends the next few weeks in a haze.

He works, he eats, he sleeps; he lives his life one day after another, just going through the motions. He can't stop _thinking_: about David, about the last night he saw him, about what he _offered_. Fuck, he told David to _drink_ from him, stood in front of the boy's doorway and almost begged him to come back, back to his bar.

_Back to me_. And that scares the hell out of him. He knows it scared David, had seen the look in his eyes, so fucking terrified, the way he scrambled inside his apartment as fast as he could proof of how freaked out he had been by Cook’s request.

Cook's not surprised as a week goes by, followed by another and another and still there's no David, no sign of his smile and his bright eyes. Doesn't know what he was expecting, really. Maybe he was hoping there would be more nights like that last one, nights where David would come in and sit, talk to him, reveal a little bit more about himself.

Fucking stupid, he knows, for him to want that. Still, he does.

And he _dreams_ – surreal, feverish things. He wakes up far too warm, his heart racing in his chest, with the phantom sensation of pressure against his neck, tiny little pinpricks of pain, and maybe he should hate David for that, for putting that kind of imagery in his head. In those moments, when Cook wakes up gasping and sweating in the middle of the night, he wonders what it’d be like if he had never laid eyes on that boy.

He doesn't like to think of that for long.

Carly keeps throwing these looks at him, curious and suspicious all at once, worried. She doesn't ask about David, probably thinks Cook sent him home that night like she said he should. Brooke and Michael are starting to get in on it too; Cook knows Carly probably told them everything, impossible to keep a secret between those three. No one asks, though, and Cook is desperately grateful for their silence.

"Would you _cheer up_?" Michael slaps his shoulder, stacking glasses one on top of the other. The bar is closing up after another uneventful night; Cook's ready for the weekend, hates these dreary nights when the bar is half-empty, longs for a room full of people, laughter, yelling – anything to distract him.

He punches Mike in the shoulder. "The hell are you talking about?" he grunts, wiping down the last few glasses left out on the counter with more vigor than necessary. He feels like he's been wound tight, shoulders tense and neck stiff, like he's about to jump out of his own skin.

Michael rolls his eyes. "I'm talking about this whole doom and gloom thing you've had going on for the past few weeks. Something's bugging you, mate. I can tell."

Cook breathes deep, in and out, tries to calm himself the fuck down, no reason to take any of this out on his friends. He feels a little better, after, enough so that the stiffness in his neck recedes a little, his blood not pumping quite so hard through his veins.

"Sorry." It's quiet, but he gets the message across. Michael claps him on the back.

"Whatever it is, we're here." And that's that. Michael finishes his stacking and heads off into the back to help the girls get everything stocked, leaving Cook alone.

He sighs, bone-tired, feeling it all the way down to his toes. He throws his rag onto the counter top and heads over to one of the tables, collapses into one of the wooden chairs.

He's tired of feeling like this, of _thinking_ about this. If David wants to come back, he will. If he doesn't, well. What is Cook supposed to do, anyway? Go to the kid's apartment?

He doesn't want to admit that he's thought about that, once or twice.

_You need to get yourself together_, he thinks, running a hand over his tired eyes. _Kid's probably not coming back. Just get on with your damn life_.

He hears the storeroom door open and shut, followed by the shuffling of tired feet. "We're all done back here," Brook says, her words punctuated by a yawn. She drops into the chair beside his, fingers carding through her long blonde hair, trying to get it back into some semblance of order. Carly and Michael take the two remaining seats at the table, Carly propping her chin up on her fist and Michael losing the battle to stay upright entirely, head hitting the table with a muffled thump.

"So tired," he mumbles, and Cook feels himself grinning, pats Mike on the shoulder. He looks around the table, sees Brooke and Carly's similar expressions of quiet exhaustion.

"You guys go on ahead. I can finish up."

Carly blinks sleepily at him. "You sure? There's not much left to do, we can – "

"Go home." Cook grins. "I'm the boss, remember? You're contractually obligated to do as I say."

Carly snorts at that. "Whatever you say, _boss_." She reaches across the table to smack Michael on the shoulder, waking him from his light doze. "Come on, Mike. I'll drop you off at home."

Cook waves them off as they file out the door, flipping the sign over to _Closed_. He looks around the bar; all he needs to do is stack the chairs and sweep the floor, shouldn't take too long.

He heads over to the jukebox; it's an old piece of junk, cracks spidering across the surface, but it works, and Cook's a little proud of it, so. He filters through the records, selects a track, and smiles as the opening chords of _Hello_ fill the room, humming along with the song as he sets about stacking the chairs up on the tables.

He's so caught up in his task, in the music, that he doesn't pay attention to anything but the scrape of the chairs, the timbre of Lionel's voice in his ears, the muffled thumps of his boots on the floor. He doesn't hear the door opening, shutting, never notices the quiet, shuffling footsteps.

A hand reaches out, grips his shoulder; Cook jerks and spins around, his breath catching in his throat.

_David_.

He looks the same as always. Same bright hazel eyes. Same awkward smile. He's standing there in his coat and scarf, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. There are snowflakes dusting his shoulders, caught in his hair.

He's too pale, shadows smudged under his eyes. He looks exhausted, a little nervous, but also a little happy, too? There's a smile on his face – nothing huge, just a tiny quirk of his lips. Cook feels like he's been punched in the stomach, just from that.

Lionel's voice falters and then fades in the background. _Is it me you're looking for?_

"You came back," Cook says. 

David's eyes widen a little, cheeks flushing prettily. "Y-yeah." His hands drift from his pockets to his sides, fingers curling a little in the hem of his coat. "Um, is it, is it okay? I mean, I can go if – "

"No, no." Cook fights the urge to stuff his own hands into his pockets, feels too jittery, can't get them to stop shaking. "It's fine. I was just closing up."

"Oh, um." David looks around the bar, can't seem to meet Cook's eyes. "Do you need any help?"

"You don't have to – "

David cuts him off, looking sheepish. "I want to." And when he finally looks up, the full force of his gaze – after so long without it – hits Cook like a freight train. Nothing he can do but nod.

They stack the rest of the chairs in near silence, broken only by the scrape and slide of the chair legs and the shuffle of their feet. Cook keeps shooting glances at David, can't seem to help it. The past few weeks have almost felt like a dream, left him wondering if everything that happened had even been real. If _David_ had even been real. And now he's just _there_, helping Cook clean up the bar with his coat thrown over the counter and his hair wet with snow and the whole situation is suddenly so absurd it's all Cook can to keep himself from laughing.

"You, um." David's looking at his hands as he slides the last chair into place. "You sound really good. Your voice, um. It's nice."

Cook almost _does_ laugh at the embarrassed flush on David's cheeks, the nervous twist of his lips. "Thanks," he says, leaning back against the counter. "What about you? Do you sing?"

He can tell by the sudden influx of red to David's face what his answer will be. "Oh! Um, well. Yes, a little. Usually with the piano." He wiggles his fingers in the air as if he's playing imaginary keys, and then drops them with a quick jerk when he catches Cook watching. It’s weirdly endearing. 

Cook grins. "You'll have to show me some time." There's a pretty blatant invitation to see each other again wrapped up in that casual remark. David nods a little jerkily at it, and though he doesn’t acquiesce he also doesn’t refuse. 

There's nothing left to do in the bar but lock up, and the lull of activity gives Cook time to think, a little unsteadily, of what David is actually doing there.

_"You can drink from me."_

He hasn't forgotten what he'd offered, that night. It's all that he's been able to think about. That David is here, now... does that mean what Cook thinks it means? There is no wild desperation to David's movements, not like the night he'd broken down and drunk from Cook. David said that he could go months without blood; did him being here now mean that what little control he'd had over himself was slipping? That it was taking less time for that hunger to overwhelm him?

"David?" His voice breaks the silence they've fallen into almost without his consent. David stares at him silently, waiting for him to go on. He almost can't get the words out with the full force of that gaze resting on him. "Do you... Did you come back for...?" He trails off, not sure what to say.

David jerks away from him, his cheeks paling before suffusing with color. "Um, I..." He fiddles with the hem of his shirt – Cook's surprised the edges aren't already frayed to ribbons with how often David seems to worry at them. "I wanted... uh."

The sight of David struggling to form a coherent sentence is equal parts endearing and infuriating. Cook's own nerves are hanging thin by now, the thought of what David might want from him making him nervous, jumpy.

"You can say it," he says, softly. David looks terrified enough at the moment – Cook feels as though anything stronger than a whisper will send the teenager running for the door. "Is it, uh. Do you need... blood?" The word slips past his lips in a choked whisper. David's eyes slide over his face, down to the bared skin of his throat, and Cook’s face flushes. "If you do." He clears his throat. "Fuck, David, you can have it, okay? I told you you could." He slips his finger under the suddenly too tight collar of his shirt, pulls it away from his warm skin. "Go ahead."

//

David stares at the flushed skin of Cook's throat, easily picks out the thick, pulsing vein along its length. He can hear the steady thump of the older man's heart even from his spot across the room; it's maddening (and it _shouldn’t_ be, he's supposed to be able to get by for months without this need clawing at him).

Cook's offer had tormented him since the night he made it. Each time David found himself wandering even remotely close to Cook's bar those words would come back to him, thick and sweet against the shell of his ear. It had taken every ounce of strength he had to force himself away; each night was worse than the last, the thought that Cook's blood had been offered so readily cropping up into his head each time he woke with pangs of hunger gnawing at his belly. It doesn't help that he can still _remember_ it, what it'd felt like, sliding down his throat, the sweet, unclouded taste of it. It's _wrong_, he's not supposed to want it so much.

He almost hates Cook for it, for putting that selfish thought in his head, that when the time comes – when he can't stand the thirst any longer – there's blood waiting for him, blood he doesn't have to hunt for, all his for the taking.

But he can't, doesn't even want to try. And oh, that scares him more than anything, that he's gotten so attached to this man, this man he barely knows, this man that knows far too much about _him_.

He almost takes a step forward before he draws himself up short. He can't do this. "Cook, you don't know what you're asking for. I already took enough from you, before." He still flinches away from his memories of that night, the way he'd taken blood from Cook so violently, how badly that must have _hurt_. Some nights he feels no better than the person that took it from _him_.

"But it's bad, isn't it?" How does Cook see that? Is it painted all over David's face, that desperation? Is he that obvious? "It's not... is it like it was then? That night?"

"Oh, um. No, no, it's not." David dreads the moment it turns to that, when the hunger completely overtakes him, doesn't ever want to feel that loss of control again. "I can live with it, Cook. Really. You don't have to – " He cuts off with a sharp gasp, breath catching in his throat; Cook has moved across the room, crowded up into David's personal space and it's just – it's too much. David can _smell_ him, his aftershave and the slight tang of his sweat, warm and close and _it’s too much_.

"David." Cook needs to stop doing that, stop pitching his voice all low and coaxing in David's ears. "It's alright. Okay?" He rests his hand, lightly, against the back of David's head, pressing forward in tiny increments, so carefully (David is just too stunned to react, can't even muster the energy to pull himself away) until he's right there, pressed up against the skin of Cook's neck (_gosh_, Cook's scent is overwhelming here, it's in every breath David takes).

His eyes inevitably fall to the vein running alongside the arch of Cook's throat, the beat of the older man's pulse strong and sure beneath his flesh. Blood is right there; all he has to do is open his mouth and sink his teeth in, but –

"I don't want to hurt you." The admittance feels like it's been pulled from his throat; his voice is completely shot, soft and hoarse.

Cook pulls back to look at him, determined. "David," he says, and it's so hard to pay attention while his mouth is so close to Cook's skin. "Listen, okay? You're not _taking_ this from me, alright? I'm _giving_ it to you." He pauses. "That’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? That you're forcing me into this?"

David nods, a small jerk of his head. His teeth _ache_.

Cook's laugh surprises him, sudden and loud against his ear, enough so that he's able to lift his head away from Cook's throat. "David, _I’m_ the one standing here fucking... fucking _tempting_ you. If anything it's me that's forcing you into this."

"No! No, you're not, Cook. Not really." Maybe it isn't fair of the older man to be baring his throat like this, but David can't really blame him. Cook doesn’t know, not really, about any of this. How could he? He doesn't understand the magnitude of what he's doing, offering himself up like some feast (and for _David_, who by rights he should want to keep as far away from as humanly possible). 

"It's just..." He swallows hard, steps away, needs that distance to keep a clear head. Cook lets him go but holds on to the end of his sleeve, only lets him back away a few paces. "I _will_ hurt you. No, don't – " He shakes off Cook's hold before the other man can interrupt. "Listen! You, you remember what that felt like, that night? Don't you?" He can tell by the uncomfortable twinge of Cook's shoulders that he does (and oh, that just brings on another hot rush of guilt to the pit of his stomach). "It wouldn't... I wouldn't let it be that way, this time. I'd be in control, a little, but… Cook, it _will_ hurt you."

For a moment he thinks he's finally gotten through to Cook. He's not speaking, not looking at David at all; there's a frown on his lips, his expression conflicted, maybe even a little guilty.

And maybe this is it, David thinks. Maybe this is the moment where Cook finally realizes that this was one huge mistake, asking David to come back to his bar instead of just turning him away. David doesn't want that. At all. Can even admit it to himself, that this thing he has with Cook – as tiny and insignificant as it may be now – is really all that he has, the _only_ kind of friendly contact he's had since the night he was attacked. It's hard to even consider giving that up.

He's just resigned himself to it, though, ready to go back to his apartment and just forget this bar (and it's bartender) when Cook suddenly lunges forward, fingers catching once again on David's sleeves.

"Cook, what – ?" He doesn't like the look on Cook's face, or the stubborn set of his shoulders. It's the look of someone who's made up their minds about something.

"You can stop trying to discourage me," Cook says, voice quiet and intent. His eyes are focused on David's face. "You're standing there acting calm and composed, trying to be all noble, like this thing isn't clawing at you inside and out."

David doesn't realize until Cook's hands are pressing into his shoulders that he's shaking. He's mortified to feel the prick of moisture in the eyes, the hot, embarrassing flush of his cheeks.

"Cook, _don’t_ – "

"I saw you that night, shaking like a leaf, all wild-eyed. Every time someone so much as bumped into your table you nearly jumped out of your fucking skin. And then when I followed you outside, and you were slumped over against that wall? You looked so out of it, David. Did you know that? Do you even remember what it felt like?"

He _does_, in little bits and flashes, short sharp bursts of agony and thirst and desperation. He doesn't want to hear any more of this, doesn't want to remember, claws weakly at Cook's hands as tears finally break free of his hold and spill down his cheeks. “_Please_, let me go, Cook. Let me go – "

"I don't want you to have to go through that again, okay? If you'd just, if you'd let me do this, it would go away, right? You wouldn't have to worry about it anymore?"

David finally snaps. “_Yes_, alright?" He gives up the struggle to dislodge Cook's hands. He's starting to get angry now, angry at Cook's stubbornness, angry at himself for even coming here when he should have just stayed away. "It goes away. A month, two months, I'm fine! I move on, and you move on. But then what? What do I do a few months later when it comes _back_? You want me to come here again? You want to offer yourself up like a slab of meat every time I go crazy? Is that really what you want, Cook?"

Cook's lips twist into a scowl. "Are you _that_ determined to push everyone away from you?" he asks, voice rougher than before. He doesn't let David answer. "I want to do this, David. I don't even fucking know why. I _shouldn’t_ care about this at all. Is that what you want me to say? That I shouldn't care about you?"

David flinches back (doesn't know why that _hurts_, so sudden and sharp). "Cook... " His voice comes out thin and reedy, strained to its breaking point.

Cook almost seems to deflate then, hands going slack on David's shoulders before falling to his sides. The determination from before, so strong and defiant, seems to be ebbing away. "I shouldn't, but I do. I want to help."

Those four words, above everything else, hit David the hardest. How long has it been, he wonders, since someone offered him a friendly glance, a hand to grab hold to, to pull him to his feet? How long has it been since he let anyone get close enough to try?

Cook prods him gently, a light touch on his shoulder, doesn't try for more. When he speaks his voice is less sure, but David can hear his conviction. "Will you let me?"  
David almost chokes on one word, tears blurring his vision so badly that all he can see of Cook is his wavy, flickering smile.

"Okay."

//

“_Okay_.”

David hadn't said anything else after that, not even as Cook had closed up the bar and locked the doors. When he'd asked the younger man where he wanted to go (because they were _not_ doing this anywhere near his bar, not with the last time still fresh in both of their heads), it'd taken some gentle prodding before David had even moved.

He'd started off down the street without a word, not even looking back to see if Cook was following. Cook had to run to catch up, falling into step beside David and stuffing his hands into his pockets as they'd walked. The streets they take look familiar; it doesn't take Cook long to figure out that they're heading to David's apartment. Doesn't know how to feel about that, head swimming with images of the first and only time he'd ever been there: waking up in that dark bedroom drained and light-headed, David's vice-like grip pulling him away from the curtains, the way he'd stumbled down the stairs in his haste to get away.

This time, Cook hopes, will be different.

He takes the time to look around once they get there. The living room is small but cozy, sofa in front of the window, a small entertainment center set up in the corner, a tiny kitchen off to the side. He looks at the photos on the walls scattered here and there, a group of people smiling broadly at the camera. His heart fucking _squeezes_ at the sight of David, prevalent in all of them, arms around the people Cook knows are his family, face bright and happy in a way he's never seen it.

Cook wants to ask where they are, ask their names even, but David's face is pinched and miserable when Cook looks at him, so he keeps his mouth shut.

His eyes catch and hold on the keyboard tucked away between the sofa and the end table; he'd missed it on his first sweep, so focused on the photos. It doesn't help that the room is so damn _dark_, the heavy drapes on the window blocking out even a sliver of moonlight. "Do you play?" he asks, gesturing to the instrument, hurriedly toeing off his shoes as David does the same and setting them in a neat row by the door.

He's amazed to see the way David's face lights up, thinks for a wild, fleeting moment that happiness looks good on him, so unrestrained and excited.

"Yeah." David sits on the couch, drawing his legs up underneath him. Cook gingerly settles down beside him, watches the smile curl up slow and sweet on David's lips. "Since I was little. My mother taught me. We had a piano in the den, and I'd always bug her to take me down there and teach me another song." He sighs, voice low and sad. "I'd love to have a piano in here, but there's just... no room, you know?" His throat works for a moment as he swallows, eyes suspiciously bright as he turns to look at Cook. "Do you, um, play anything?"

"Oh, yeah." Cook jumps on the subject with relish, anything to get that devastatingly lost look off of David's face. "The guitar, actually, ever since I was kid. Drove my family crazy at first, me wailing away at all hours of the night like some lunatic. I was, uh, pretty horrible at it, those first few months."

David grins and pulls his legs up so that he can rest his chin on his knees. "And what about now?" he asks, giggling at Cook's affronted look.

"Hey! My skills are unmatched, I'll have you know." He pushes slightly at David's shoulder, muttering, "Brat," under his breath. He's rewarded with another of David's giggles, and it's amazing how they change the boy's face, smooth the worry lines around his mouth, make him look younger than he really is.

"Well, I only have your word to go on here."

"And that's not enough?" Cook acts offended, turning his nose up at the younger man. He can't help but grin as David's laugh rings out again, warm and bright; it's infectious. "Well, how about this? Next time – and there _will_ be a next time," he says sternly, interrupting whatever protest David is about to give. "I'll play something for you. I might even sing. That's got to sweeten the pot, right? You said you liked my voice, after all."

He probably gets more enjoyment out of David's blush than he should. "Yeah, but – "

"And in exchange," Cook continues, cutting David off. He knows David will try to wriggle out of this arrangement in any way he can. They haven't even brought up the actual reason he's here yet, and if he leaves it up to David, Cook thinks, they probably never will. If he doesn't wrangle some sort of promise out of this kid, he knows there's a very real chance that he won't see him again. Just because David came back once doesn't mean he plans on doing it again. With the way this night's been going, everything at the moment is still up in the air. "In exchange, you have to play me something. Oh, and sing. That's a fair trade, right?"

David rubs his palm anxiously across his mouth, eyes wide and unsure. Any trace of laughter has slipped from his face; there's nothing but a sudden and very deep sense of resignation. "You really... " He clears his throat, eyes falling from Cook's face to his own knees, fingers curling into his jeans. "You're really going to do this, aren't you?"

And there it is, the subject they've been skirting since they left the bar. Cook's surprised David even brought it up, figured he'd be the one to coax the younger man into it.

"Yes." His voice is completely serious, eyes boring into David even though David won't look at him. "I told you I wanted to help, David. That hasn't changed in the last twenty minutes."

A tired smile curls David's lips. "I was hoping it might have." He presses his face into his raised knees, fingers digging into his shins. His voice is muffled, hard to hear, but Cook picks out every word. "Are you sure? You _have_ to be sure. I might not be able to stop once it starts, okay? I – "

"David. _David_." Cook takes hold of the boy's shoulders, coaxes him into lifting his head. Tears are clinging to his lashes, face red and miserable. Cook hates that fucking expression, hates the roiling mass of guilt that surges into his chest at the sight of it, because it's his fault that David's looking like this, all because Cook won't let this go. "Listen, okay? You're not forcing me into this. I'm here because I want to be here, right? I came on my own. David, you have nothing to feel guilty about."

_But **you** do_, he thinks, scowling, _turning this kid into a fucking mess because of what, exactly? Your goddamn bleeding heart? Christ._

"I..." David's voice jerks Cook out of his own head. His hazel eyes are bright with something, a fierce little spark of determination, like he's psyching himself up for what he's about to say. Cook's hands are still on his shoulders, the fabric of his sweater soft and worn beneath Cook's palms. "I don't want, um. I don't want you to think that this – " He waves a hand idly between the two of them, " – that this is all... Dang it." He breathes in deep, letting his air out in a long _whoosh_. "I don't want you to think that this is the only reason I came back."

Cook doesn't know what to say, can't do anything but sit there, waiting for David to continue.

"I _like_ you." Cook's heart chooses that exact moment to lodge itself in his throat. He knows David doesn't mean it in the way Cook thinks (he _can’t_, and Christ, what does it mean that that's the first place Cook's mind jumped to at those words?) "I like you and your bar and all of the people there. I loved to just, just sit there and watch everyone, you know? Not, not because I needed – Not because of that, but because everyone was just so... happy, I guess? Even the ones who weren't, the ones that complained about their jobs or their homes or their family, they'd sit there and talk to you or to each other and it was like, everything bad just went away, you know? They'd be laughing and drinking by the end of the night, and they wouldn't even want to leave. And the singing!" Laughter lights up David's eyes (Cook's, too, because he knows what David is talking about, has seen it every night he goes to work).

"Someone would pick a song on the jukebox or blast the radio if it was a slow night or something, and everyone would just... They'd sing. Even if it was a song they'd never heard, or if, um, they were kind of bad at it? Everyone would just join in and have a good time."

Cook settles into the back of the couch, finally pulling his hands away from David's shoulders. "Did you ever... ?" he asks, thinking back, trying to recall if he'd ever seen David, huddled away in his corner, mouthing the words to whatever song they'd decided to blast.

David shakes his head. "No, I never... I just watched, you know? It's what I always do. But, but sometimes Carly or Michael or Brooke would come over and talk to me when they were on their break. I think... I think they were wondering what I was doing there, honestly. Michael told me once... he told me that it was because of you, that they let me stay?" David looks at him, eyes wide and inquisitive and Cook thinks, _Dammit, Mike_.

"You looked like you needed to be there," he says after a lengthy pause. Sighs, rubs a hand across his face. "Honestly, David? I don't why I never threw you out. I wanted – _we_ wanted – to, I don't know, keep an eye on you? Protect you, or something. You brought that out in all of us."

Red rises and settles on David's cheeks; he looks away, towards his lap, plucks a random thread of fabric from the sofa. "Yeah, I... I noticed, after a while, how you all would kind of, um, keep the rowdier people away from me."

Cook nearly blushes himself, clears his throat noisily. "You noticed that, huh?"

"Yeah. Um, thank you, by the way. For that. For trying to keep me safe. You didn't have to."

_You never really gave us much of a choice there, kid_, he thinks, but he bites his lip, says "You're welcome," quietly instead. No sense in telling David that he really couldn't help it, that desire to keep him safe, doesn't think he could explain it in a way that made any fucking sense anyway.

They lapse into silence, surprisingly comfortable. Cook can hear the tiny _tic-tic-toc_ of a clock somewhere in the apartment; he wonders vaguely what the rest of David's home must look like, how he spends his days here, clustered away from the sun. It's a depressing thought; David looks like the kind of person who thrives in sunlight, who shouldn't be able to function without it.

_But he does_, Cook thinks, glancing at David's profile. Anyone looking at the kid for the first time could easily dismiss him as someone frail, someone who needed protection. Lord knows Cook had fallen into that mind set. 

But, up close, knowing what he does, Cook can't help but think that David is the strongest person he knows. To live through what he has, to keep going despite losing everything (despite being so fucking _alone_ all the time), that takes a kind of strength Cook can't even begin to comprehend.

And it hits him again with startling clarity: _I want to help him. Christ, any way I fucking can, I want to help him._

"I'm ready," he says, breaking the silence. David jumps, eyes snapping to Cook's face. He goes on before the younger man can protest. "If you're ready, David." He slides his finger along the collar of his shirt, same way he'd done in the bar, and pulls the fabric away from his throat. "I'm ready."

This time, David doesn't back away. This time, Cook doesn't have to draw him forward, one stubborn inch at a time. David leans toward him on his own, eyes focused on Cook's face the entire time. The fact that they're not drawn to his neck, to what he knows David really needs, not even once, tears him all the hell up for reasons he can't even begin to understand.

He turns toward David as the younger man leans toward him, sliding his hands slowly, unsurely onto Cook's shoulders. Their eyes stay locked the entire time, strange and potent; he barely even breathes once David's head reaches his neck, gulps in a startled lungful only once David's eyes aren't boring into his own anymore.

David's voice is muffled against his throat; the warm puffs of breath against Cook's skin make him shake, fingers digging into the couch cushions with anticipation, uncertainty (but not fear, not fear). "Breathe, Cook. Just breathe." He pulls at Cook's hands, presses them against his own shoulders. "If it's too much, just squeeze, okay? I'll stop. I promise, I'll stop." And Cook believes him, doesn't think for a second that David wouldn't pull away if he asked, not with that tone of voice, so strong and sure while Cook's sitting there shaking like a leaf, and just when had their roles changed so drastically?

The press of David's lips to his skin is fucking strange, as is the slow glide of his mouth as he opens it against Cook's throat. It’s not a bad feeling, no, but it’s loaded, potent. He’s expecting the sharp pinpricks of David’s teeth breaking his skin at any moment, an onrush of darkness like before, but instead he feels the almost liquid slide of David's fangs sinking into his skin like a knife through butter. There's a sting, the whoosh of air as it leaves Cook’s mouth, and then...

Cook doesn't know how to explain it. He _feels_ the pull of blood as David sucks, followed by this dizzying, rushing sensation. David's fingers curl into his shirt as he drinks, slide from his shoulders to his arms, one even spearing through the hair at the nape of his neck. Cook's stomach clenches hard at the touch, warmth pooling low and hot in his belly. His own hands can't fucking stay still, keep clutching at David's shoulders, his sides – never squeezing, though, never getting David to stop.

At one point one of his palms slides over the skin of David's throat, right as he's swallowing, Jesus Christ. It shouldn't be affecting him like it is; he can feel himself growing hard in his jeans as David sucks and mewls (probably doesn't even know he's doing it, whimpering and making little noises of satisfaction as Cook's blood slides down his throat).

There's another sound, too, quiet, muffled grunts, low groans that Cook realizes dimly are coming from _him_. He has one hand buried in David's thick dark hair, though he doesn't even remember moving it there, and one at his own mouth, biting into his clammy palm to keep the noises from escaping (can't stop them, though, can't fucking stop).

It goes on for minutes, hours; Cook loses all track of time, all sense of anything but David's hands and David's mouth and David's body pressed up against him. He shudders the moment David pulls his mouth away and nearly cries out at the swipe of a tongue, warm and wet against the puncture marks, licking away what little blood managed to trickle down his neck.

His head swims as David pulls back, and god, his _face_. There's a new, healthy flush of color to David's cheeks. His lips are swiped clean of blood, fuller and pinker than Cook's ever seen them (still stained, though, if he focuses, still too red to be normal). His eyes, though. His eyes are fucking huge now, a darker hazel than usual, warm and terribly bright, and goddammit, Cook can't even _breathe_ suddenly, his chest too full and his head swimming.

He hears David whisper his name, voice scratchy and raw, sees his lips mouth the word for a split second before warm, calming blackness washes over him.

Cook closes his eyes and welcomes it.

//

David catches Cook as he falls forward, his squeak of surprise thankfully muffled by Cook's shoulder against his mouth. He wraps his arms around the older man's waist, pushes and pulls until he's able to wriggle out from under him, laying Cook down as comfortably as he across the couch.

He stands there for a moment, looking down at his surprising new guest, watching the way Cook's chest rises and falls as he breathes, the way he snuffles in his sleep. His eyes are inevitably drawn to Cook's waist, down over his hips; he blushes, thick and hot, at the noticeable bulge in Cook's jeans, wonders dizzily if it's because of _him_, because he...

"Oh gosh." David’s voice is soft, breathy; he's never heard it like that, doesn't know what to think of it. He knows he got, um, carried away, remembers the way his hands had moved as if they had a life of their own, the way he'd clutched at Cook's hair (oh, oh gosh), and oh, the sounds he'd made...

"What is _wrong_ with you?" He shakes his head, hurries upstairs to his bedroom so he can grab a pillow and pull the comforter off the bed. The menial tasks give David time to think, and so he does, back to that moment when he'd pressed his fangs into Cook's throat, the sweet rush of blood in his mouth. He doesn't mean to think it, doesn't like the way it makes him feel, but Cook's blood had been so warm, so unclouded and rich. Maybe it's because David’s not used to anything but blood tainted with alcohol, but... Maybe, maybe it's just because it's _Cook's_.

And, during the, when he'd been drinking, Cook had... he had held on to David, too. He had buried his fingers in David's hair and pressed up close to him and, and...

He'd made sounds, too. David had heard them, in-between the pounding of their hearts and the tiny gulps of blood he could hear Cook's muffled groans, tiny little noises he apparently hadn't been able to control.

The blood rushes to David’s face, settles in the pit of his stomach and makes his groin ache. He gulps in a huge lungful of air, just breathes for a moment, waits for the dizzying, hot rush of feeling to leave him.

What the heck is wrong with him?

_Get a hold of yourself, David_, he thinks, lugging the quilt and pillow down the stairs. He makes sure the curtains are all drawn upstairs before he goes, knowing that dawn isn't far off. Cook is just as David had left him, sleeping soundly on the couch. He's curled up onto his side now, back against the back of the sofa, lips parted as he draws in slow, deep breaths.

David's heart kind of squeezes at the sight. He ignores it to the best of his ability and slides the comforter over Cook's body. He raises Cook's head gently so he can slip the pillow underneath, and can't stop himself from sliding his fingers through those auburn strands one more time.

"Thank you." He knows Cook can't hear him but he keeps going anyway, promising to say it again once Cook wakes up. "You didn't have to do this, but. I'm glad you did. I'm glad you're trying to know me." And, before he can change his mind, he leans forward and presses a quick, chaste kiss to Cook's forehead.

His face is on fire as he pulls back; he presses his hands against his cheeks and thinks, _Alright, David. Time to go. Go do something. Let him sleep._

He goes around the entire apartment, making sure the doors and windows are locked, pulling the heavy drapes tight over the windows. He even cleans for a while, does the laundry he's been neglecting, tidies up the kitchen and mops the floor.

He's back at the couch in an hour, leaning against the cushion at Cook's head and humming tiny snippets of songs as he sits there, drinking in the calm and the quiet. As dawn creeps steadily closer he finds his head nodding back, feels his limbs grow heavy with fatigue.

He falls asleep with his head on the sofa, Cook's breath washing over him.


End file.
